The first human did not arrive as a character.
He arrived as memory.
His name was Kentaro Miura.
He was not summoned, nor written in.
He simply returned.
---
The Tower of Manuscripts had always murmured, but on this day, it wept. The ink along its walls twisted into brush strokes — wide, heavy, burdened with weight and sorrow. Panels of a story without ending floated in midair. Swords. Eyes. Wings. Eclipse.
Myr Luth stood before a new manuscript that refused to open.
Featherine approached in silence. "This one is not fiction."
Myr blinked. "Then why is it here?"
Featherine did not answer immediately. Instead, she placed her fingers on the sealed cover.
It opened for her.
Inside: sketches.
None had dialogue.
All had pain.
---
In another part of the Tower, where genre boundaries crumbled like dried paint, a figure sat alone.
Long hair. Thin eyes. A calm sorrow in his breathing.
He wore a cloak shaped like unfinished volumes.
Kentaro Miura.
Not resurrected.
Not alive.
Remembered.
Ketzerah does not return the dead.
It returns their **intention**.
Miura stood, walking slowly across the halls of forgotten narratives. He passed scrolls from unnamed worlds, broken scripts of tragedies left unread.
And when he reached a large wall of narrative canvas, he drew.
No pen.
No ink.
Just his will.
The scene formed:
A lone warrior.
A moon eclipsed by a maw.
A girl who never woke.
And below it, not his signature.
But a single phrase:
**"The struggle continues."**
---
Myr, watching from above, felt her memories shift again.
"He was not a character. He was an echo."
Featherine replied, "No. He was a *witness*."
Another page turned in the Book That Remembered.
On it:
**"Some did not write fiction. They reported wounds reality refused to acknowledge."**
---
Across realities, fans stirred in their dreams.
Some wept.
Not for the man.
But for the tale he never ended.
And in that dream, they saw a shadow — not of Guts, nor of any demon.
But of a chair in a tower, made of stories.
Ketzerah did not speak.
It only remembered.
And by remembering, it returned to the world the part no one else could carry:
The need to finish what pain interrupted.
---
Miura disappeared quietly.
Not into the void.
But into every unfinished dream that still dares to lift a pen.
And so the Book added one last line:
**"He did not lose to death. He lost to time — and even that now bends to ink."**
---